


Flesh and Blood

by Arcacia



Series: Counterparts of Consumption [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Draco, F/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcacia/pseuds/Arcacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Draco knows when he wakes up is an insatiable hunger. "The tantalizing aroma grows stronger. Saliva rushes in his mouth and he swallows." One-shot. Dramione if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh and Blood

**Flesh and Blood**

He hungers.

It is the only thing Draco is aware of when he awakens.

His head pounds like he has downed bottles of Ogden's finest the night before, there is a heaviness in his limbs, his clothes are rumpled and look like he's been dressed for a funeral. Sitting upright is a feat of its own, and he can't quite discern the metallic taste lingering in his mouth. Still, the only thing that matters is the unscratchable itch that comes from the depths of his stomach.

He tries to call out for Mitzy, his personal house elf, but all that comes out is a croak. She comes anyway, bearing a glass of water, and he smiles, grateful for the little creature's loyalty. She bows low as he sips the water and tells him there is food in the dining room should he wish it then disapparates with a pop before he has a chance to dismiss her.

The mention of food is enough to propel him from the bed and he does, legs tangling up in the sheets in his haste. The hunger yawns and he nearly sprints down the stairs, almost slipping on the lacquered wood twice.

On the dining room table lies a veritable feast. Draco briefly wonders what the occasion is though the thought does not stay with him long as the food commands his attention.

He hardly knows where to start and settles for the plate of toast nearest to him. The toast is warm and the smell of butter lightly wafts up to him. He picks it up and it's just this side of crumbly, just the way he likes it. The hunger groans and Draco can't stand it any longer.

He brings it to him and takes a huge bite of the buttery toast then proceeds to immediately and violently, reject it.

His reaction is so instantaneous he doesn't even have the time to process it. In his mouth the toast is ash and tastes of charcoal. He gags forcefully when it refuses to leave his tongue and he dry heaves until all of it is gone.

His grey eyes are wide and spittle hangs off from the corner of his mouth as he stares at what is left of the offending toast on the floor. His stomach rumbles in protest and Draco tries to think of the last time Mitzy's cooking is this bad. No incident comes to mind.

Draco doesn't think it is even possible for elves to ever be bad in cooking.

It must be a fluke, he reasons, a piece of toast gone wrong, somehow. He pushes the plate of toast aside, feeling a little too queasy to attempt a different piece and reaches for the plate of English bacon.

The next hour is a cycle of agony as he eats and retches, eats and retches.

Eggs taste and feel like rubber. Porridge turns to sludge and is equally rank. Fresh fruits bear the sourness of rotting rubbish. Draco even attempts his least favourite mushrooms — if it tastes terrible before, now it is like eating manure.

His throat screams at him to stop and his stomach starts to clench painfully at the mere thought of forcing in another mouthful. Still, he orders the elves to bring more, more,  **more**. He keeps trying till he weeps but the cloying emptiness in him remains unsatiated.

He is hungry — so  _hungry_  — but he cannot eat.

* * *

Draco wanders the endless hallways of his childhood home aimlessly. He can think of naught else but the incessant pressure within telling him to feed, demanding to be filled. Like a parasite, it persists, insists. He can feel himself teetering precariously on the edge of sanity.

Driven half mad, Draco doesn't notice the scent at first, but it pierces through the static haze that has presided over him since the incident in the dining room and he is abruptly returned to his senses. It is distinct and achingly familiar yet he can't quite put a finger on it.

Before he realises it, he is standing in the dungeons, surrounded by that heady, intoxicating smell. He barely even notices the pressure anymore, the hunger having seemingly been abated temporarily.

He locates the source to a closed door. It isn't locked and swings open easily under his touch. When he raises his head, he wishes he didn't come down here at all.

There is only blood, as far as the eye can see.

An ill sense of unease washes over him; Draco has seen enough death to know how much blood a human body can contain.

The blood is a deep dark red, dried and flaking in some places. It is mostly pooled on the floor but there is plenty splashed across the walls and ceiling too, looking very much like a particularly gruesome imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting.

Where the blood is concentrated most Draco is able to vaguely make out what looks to be an arcane circle drawn on the stone. Any attempts to approach it are immediately repelled by a sensation of being seared alive by the very air around it. Draco forgoes going near it again but knows enough to sense the dark, ancient magic reeking out of the area.

He sticks to the walls, edging around the circle and searches the room for anything — perhaps an identification of who might have been down here. When he finds the long blond hair, a shade darker than the customary Malfoy brand of colouring, attached still to scalp pieces on one end, Draco turns tail and runs.

He flees the manor, oblivious to the calls of various house elves and apparates blindly into the night.

* * *

Draco has lost all semblance of time. He doesn't know how long he's been walking the streets of Muggle London, nor does he even have any real memory of how he got there in the first place. All he remembers is... red and a persistent hunger that refuses to leave. Most of the day's memories are a blur, but when he thinks of getting food, his stomach muscles constrict and his throat dries up.

He shakes himself and moves on. People stare as he passes them by, pointing and laughing behind shielded mouths and he nearly lashes out at them right there and then. It is only the thought of a life sentence in Azkaban that stays his hand. He burrows his hands into his robes pockets and tucks his head deeper into his upturned collar, taking comfort from the feel of his wand in hand as he quickens his pace.

Draco has no destination in mind but anywhere is better than this suffocatingly crowded London street.

It is only when the child falls does he notice he has bumped into another person. The child looks to be no older than six. Draco remembers a Muggle family, with a little boy as young as that, chained up then slaughtered — for  _fun_  — during the war. Their blood is no muddier than his own.

He forces a trembling smile onto his face and offers the child a hand. She blinks up at him from her position on the ground, eyes bright with unshed tears. Shyly, she takes his hand and he pulls her up, hands moving, unthinking, to pat her of any dust.

Her mother comes running, dirty blond hair bouncing behind her, apologizing profusely while berating her daughter for running away from her.

Draco suddenly remembers that he hasn't seen his mother since he woke up. Unbidden, the tears flow and try as he might, he cannot stop them. He is a sobbing mess and the poor girl's mother is probably terrified, but still he can't stop.

He feels a small tug on his robes and looks down and the girl is beckoning him to come closer. With tears still coming unfettered and what he suspects is snot joining the mess, he squats down and leans forward to the child. She timidly sticks out a closed palm, opens it, and in it is a sweetie.

But Draco sees none of that. He doesn't see the bright smile the child gives him; neither does he see the look of concern for him on her mother's face. His heart pounds an erratic rhythm in his chest and his breath quickens, rapidly devolving into frantic pants.

Draco turns and flees again, for the second time in a day, though this time he runs for a different reason.

He runs because for a split second there he had wanted to sink his teeth into the little girl's succulent cheek and eat the flesh off her bones.

* * *

He stumbles into an alley, still somewhere in the middle of Muggle London.

His lungs burn and his legs ache from over-exertion. He hasn't stopped, dared not, not while there are still people — luscious, exquisite, delectable — all around him.

The hunger  **needs**.

Draco bites down hard on his hand to stifle the needy whine that threatens to spill. Shock, horror, disgust —  _bliss_  — fills him when a chunk of his hand tears off and he swallows involuntarily. The meat slides smoothly down his throat. No gag reflex comes.

He stares. There is a hole in his hand and the only thing he is capable of doing is to stare. There are no words in his thoughts, no comprehensible, coherent words; just a clashing cacophony of screams and laughter tinged with hysteria. His ragged breaths grow louder in the alley.

Brusquely, the anxiety filled sounds coming from him stop. Draco isn't alone in the alley. He catches the whiff of something pleasant and it instantly calms him.

Draco is reminded of Sunday roast around the Malfoy dining table. It brings up recollections of a lifetime ago, of warm, delicious meals in Hogwarts, surrounded by giggling friends. He breathes in deeply, desperate to fill his lungs with the enticing fragrance. His mouth starts to water.

It, whatever it is, is just beyond him around the corner, almost within reach.

He forgets the hole in his hand, forgets the panic he felt in front of the girl child. His mind is sharp and focused; he doesn't falter in his steps. Swiftly, he rounds the corner.

Draco will recognise that bushy head of hair anywhere. She has haunted his dreams enough that there is simply no mistaking it.

She isn't alone either. He might have interpreted the scene a different way if he hadn't been staring so intently. But as it is, there stood Hermione Granger, war heroine, brains of the Gryffindor Trio and all round golden girl, latched onto an unknown man's — Muggle? — neck, arms wrapped tightly around him to stop him from struggling.

From where she is clamped on his neck trickles two thin rivulets of blood. The man's mouth is open and he seems to be gasping though Draco can only hear a buzzing sound.

He may have stumbled or gasped himself for Granger's eyes snap up to him at that moment. She doesn't stop though, even as she's made aware of her audience, and he stares, unblinking, in sick fascination. The tantalizing aroma grows stronger. Saliva rushes in his mouth and he swallows.

The man twitches as the last of his life leaves him. Granger releases the death grip on his neck but makes no other movements, propping the dead man between her arms casually like he's nothing more than a mannequin.

Draco is frozen to the spot, eyes flitting between the poor bastard and her as she calmly watches him with a calculating gaze. He has to keep swallowing now, Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, lest he slobbers in the most undignified manner.

Draco can see the moment she makes her decision. An empty smile lifts the corner of her lips and she pulls her wand from a hidden pocket. He vaguely remembers his own in his robes but the alluring scent and roaring hunger working in tandem renders him uncaring of whatever she has planned. His entire universe is condensed to a point in her arms. It is all he wants, all he needs.

Draco barely flinches when she makes to cast a spell. He is distantly aware of the sudden absence of the buzzing noise.

"Hungry, Malfoy?" She says before tossing the body at him. Her smile turns feral and her eyes glint with a danger that sends a shiver running down his spine.

Their first meeting — their past is irrelevant — is serendipity.

* * *

She partakes in blood and he consumes flesh. They are the perfect complement and he will have it no other way.

**Author's Note:**

> I had originally wanted to make this a crack!fic, but as is typical with anything that I touch, it veered off completely into some sort of dark recess in my mind and became this. I have quite a few inspirations for this fic. It mainly comes from a D&D post on tumblr about an Eladrin vampire and an Eladrin bladesinger with ghoul-like tendencies. Another big influence would be Tokyo Ghoul which should be obvious to anyone who has read the manga or watched the anime. I am aware that ghouls do exist in the HP verse and those are mostly harmless, but I'm returning it (at least the version that Draco becomes) to its original Arabic roots which isn't very nice at all.
> 
> At the moment, I have plans to turn this into a long serial, so I'll see how that goes.
> 
> Be nice to authors, leave comments. And I do mean comments, not just kudos and bookmarks (although I will never begrudge those either). Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten an author's day.


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